


An Apt Description

by Dirtcore Dreams (NakedEye)



Series: Upon Request [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Come Eating, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Frottage, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, M/M, Penis Size, Piss Marking, Power Dynamics, Raunch, Rimming, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Watersports, Xeno, Xenophilia, beastiality, centaur!Derek, horsecock, musk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 21:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15398373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NakedEye/pseuds/Dirtcore%20Dreams
Summary: Stiles' fascination with the fey had always bordered on unhealthy. For the first time in his life he has to face the consequences with his banishment. He takes to the woods, with nowhere else to go, and happens upon a creature that's the perfect object of his adoration, his lust.





	An Apt Description

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was requested over at my tumblr, (drivenbyadevilshunger). If you'd like to leave me a prompt of your own, hit up my inbox!

The word immediate on Stiles' lips was regal. It floated through his brain without any context, without drinking in the rest of the scene that was set out before him. It was the kind of flowery, overly romantic thing that had gotten him into trouble time and time again. It was dumb, dewy eyed, perhaps even delirious. It was the kind of thing a kid who had never seen the real world would think.

Stiles had seen a lot of things. Dark things, terrible things, things that would make a person curl up and beg for anything to forget. And yet, as he drew upon the glade, as his careful feet made little noise so as not to spook the denizens surrounding the pond, he looked upon unearthly things and thought, regal.

Maybe it was a true word, one that could—nay should—be ascribed to a static image such as this. But it was no still life, it was not an interpretation of what lie at the center of the woods. This wasn't an illustration for a story book or an impressionistic metaphor for the wonder of youth.

Standing just at the edge of the water, idly clopping at the ground as it reached for fruit from a tree, was a centaur. His coat was jet black, so deep in color the highlights were stunning blue. His human torso was muscular, sturdy, dusk skinned and artfully crisscrossed with warrior's scars. The base of his tail was wrapped in leather, making it jut from his rippling haunches into the air.

It was stunning, all on its own, but there was more. Oh was there ever more to the tableau that made Stiles flush. His face got hot, his ears turned red, he felt his breath quicken with taboo enticement. For the centaur was well gifted, and free enough to show it. Just the sheathe of a cock hung heavy between hind legs, swinging every so slightly with his movement, girthy and soft looking. Behind that was a massive breeding sack—leathery and unevenly dangled. The orbs inside looked large as dragon's eggs and Stiles imagined them being just as warm.

He wanted to press his face to them... idly taste, breathe the animal musk in. There was no doubting this was stupid, that the creature was dangerous. He was a wild thing. This was no disfigured man, nor even a creature borne of magic, made with a master. This was such a beast that it had been around before man. Fair folk. Fey.

They didn't think as men did, didn't behave in the same patterns. Fickle creatures containing violent appetites. Hedonist, lustful. Stiles was enraptured by them. He read on them, dreamed of them, touched himself in the night for wont of their presence.

As he'd said before, he was a stupid boy, a silly thing that didn't really understand. His village threw him out for it, and rightly so. He'd brought danger to their doorstep a few times too many as his curiosity overtook his common sense. Now he had nowhere else to go, but where he'd been drawn to his entire life.

So he stood at the edge of a lake, feeling a fever ripple across his skin as he allowed his silly thoughts to grow sinful. That beast was man enough for him, man enough to make his cock ache, his mouth water. Stiles leant against a tree like as though he needed it to stay upright, as though his sordid need might just topple him over.

He fluttered his eyes and chewed his lips and brushed at his hardening nipples through his shirt as the centaur wiped the juice of berries down his front, turned away from his meal, caught the eye of his voyeur. The beast's brows knitted, his mouth turned down in consternation. He chuffed and clopped his hooves into the ground.

With his shoulders squared, his chest puffed up, threatening to charge, Stiles found him ever more alluring. He had not the sense to stop, or maybe he just stopped wanting to. Maybe he had accepted the dark things inside himself that long for such an animal to take him. Either way he did not turn his gaze, did not shrink away like a shy violet. He made these little noises, these hungry desperate things that floated from his mouth like delicate butterflies. Stiles watched that beast-man watch him, and fished his blushing pink cock from his pants.

The centaur riled, bucked onto his hind legs, shook his coat out in agitation. Stiles' dick started to leak, sticky and shiny and slick. It made sounds as he moved his hand along it, sounds that didn't quite belong in so pretty a place.

The centaur did charge him, galloping and crossing their distance in a matter of time Stiles had issues comprehending. Brutal hooves hit his shoulders, tackling him to the ground. They stamped on his body, lit it up with flares of fire that stoles the breath from his lungs. The beast stood over him, looked down on him, snorted in derision.

Stiles knew his body would be littered with bruises, could feel scrapes along his back. His heart hammered in terror and his nose wrinkled at the pungent musk of an animal so close to his skin. But his hardness did not flag. His mouth hung open, wet and plush and pleading. He wriggled beneath his captor and in a show of submission, of deference, he wet himself.

The centaur blinked, cantered in confusion. He watched, eyes wide, as a steady stream soaked through the rest of Stiles' close, made a bitter puddle beneath him. Droplets dotted his eyelashes, rested on his lips. He watched the beast-man's nostrils flare as he scented it, took the gesture in.

Stiles couldn't read his reaction, wasn't sure if he'd be set free or trampled, until—until that massive cock, rigid and ringed and length of his body, flopped atop his belly. It seemed the beast found this not only pleasing, but arousing. Its cock had unfurled, laying its heft atop him, letting him take not of its weight, heat, girth.

The beast-man chuffed, clopped a hoof by his head, slowly drug it across Stiles' skin. He got the message, whimpered as the took the sex in hand. He rubbed his body against it, wrapped his arms around it, pressed his face to blunt, flared tip and took a taste. Bitter, salty, earthy. It was a taste not unfamiliar, but undoubtedly animal. He moaned. The beast bucked.

Their fucking was filthy, fetid. It went against nature. Stiles reveled in it. He dragged that cock against every inch of himself, made sure his skin stunk of it. He committed the taste of it to memory, made out with the weeping opening like he had an addiction for it. He did press his face to those heavy balls, felt them throb against him, start to draw up tight.

He did not have to be threatened, be guided or pressured, to continue his pathing—to come to a large, leathery opening. It was puffy and black, wrinkles in a ring. The muscles quivered and jumped beneath his attention, protruding to show wet, deep red inside. It smelled like a stable, like horse shit. Stiles held the centaur's tail aloft as he pressed into it. Face, fist, dick, tongue.

He made love to a horse's ass as the creature grunted and huffed and whinnied at him—their only communication. Stiles let it paint him in cum, splattering slops of it. It matted his hair, caught in his throat, seeped into his skin. He rubbed it in, cut it with his own leavings, wriggled prostrate and pleased in a puddle of it.

The creature stared at him with derision, fondness. It pissed on his body. When Stiles made no move to scamper from it, it finally collapsed to lay with him. Stiles could see it, could feel it. In the centaur's eyes, he was the animal, an adorable new pet. He found himself content with that, easily adjusted his view on the world to take it in as normal. Another word he threw away the weight of, but enjoyed just fine.

 


End file.
